


Song as Old as Rhyme

by rrueplumet



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast (2017), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual Sex, F/F, Lesbian AU, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Rule 63, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 17:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12635601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rrueplumet/pseuds/rrueplumet
Summary: A snap-shot of Belle's time at the castle.   She endeavours to learn the Beast's true name as intimacy blossoms between them.   (Rule 63.  Female Beast.)





	Song as Old as Rhyme

**Author's Note:**

> Just a snap-shot, not the entire movie re-written. Mostly inspired by Disney's incarnation, obviously, but borrowing elements from the original narrative (and the stage show, such as the evolving state of the staff). Both lead characters are inspired by their animated counterparts, but this is a different dynamic and so liberties were taken. They are recognizable but intentionally different. 
> 
> This tale has an erotic undertone throughout, the developing acceptance of sexuality a recurring theme. There is a mention of abuse in the past (including that of an implied sexual nature) but it is not graphic. Still, a warning. 
> 
> Also, monster-fuck-scene. Like, explicitly. Turn back if you're not a monster-fucker.
> 
> If you ARE a monster fucker, then enjoy, ya filthy animal.

 

 

 

The Beast refuses to divulge her name.   Belle asks thrice daily (morning, noon, and night) but the innocent query draws angry lines of shame across that powerful body. 

“I’m not who I was,” the Beast always says.  Anxiety unsheathes her claws, but a shuddering breath retracts them again.   Belle watches them disappear into those inhuman hands.  “Therefore I can’t be called by that name.”

“So I’m just supposed to call you _Beast_?” Belle asks, with her hands on her hips and her feet spread wide.   A stance of dominance.   Not that she could physically intimidate the Beast, given the enormous disparity in size.   But she throws back her head and stares directly into those wide blue eyes, so achingly human and soft with a sort-of feminine grace, trapped under the hard trauma of a misshapen monster. 

Misshapen and, Belle knows, misunderstood.

The Beast, far better affected by Belle’s intimidation than she could ever know, huffs.   She pulls her lips into a grim expression, her foremost fangs visible with misery.

“Everyone else does,” the Beast says.  “Why should you be different?”

Everyday, Belle asks.  Everyday, the Beast answers.   Everyday, Belle steps closer and touches her arm, touches the soft fur—not perfectly animal, but certainly not human— and gently threads her fingers through the short strands. 

“I’ll get an answer one day,” Belle promises. 

If the Beast is standing, that is when she sits.   If she is sitting, she curls into herself like a large cat, or a wolf in the winter wind.  Protecting herself, big shoulders shaking, swallowing hard—so pathetically affected by the gentlest touch, by the sweetest voice, by the simplest words.  

“I believe you,” the Beast says, and smiles, a little kinder each time.   Always just as scared. 

 

 

 

One day, after this touch, Belle leans in.  She presses her forehead to one great arm, hard muscle straining within the human shirt the Beast wears.   It doesn’t cover her whole arm.  Those broad forearms are always exposed, that soft place Belle touches in consolation after their intimate conversations.   She strokes her fingers in that familiar spot, her touch easy.  

“You know,” Belle says, drawing the material further up that arm, “Sometimes I think, that for all your posturing like a brute, you’ve always been more scared of me than I could ever be of you.” 

The Beast breathes in, her whole chest lifting.  Belle slows her touch, drags her fingers down to the wrist and up again.   Careful, slow, like she was holding a little bird and not a beast.   When the Beast relaxes under the tender ministration, Belle’s heart swells with affection—touched, delighted, thrilled, as if that little bird hopped happily into her palm.  To be trusted by something so delicate is moving. 

“I think you’re right,” the Beast says, her voice going low, delving into that rasp she uses when she doesn’t want to be heard.   Doesn’t want to be heard, but speaks anyway.   Like she just can’t keep it in. 

Belle loops their arms, resting her head against the Beast’s bicep.  They are sitting close together on a window seat in the library, the vast winter courtyard glowing white and cold behind them.   Belle feels warm here.   Safe.   She folds her legs under herself, tucking them into her skirt.   The Beast curls her fingers into fists and her muscles go tight, trembling.

“Be nice,” Belle says, coaxing that little bird back into her palm.   She turns the Beast’s hand over, palm up, and slides her hand on top.   The Beast dwarfs her hand, Belle’s fingers slender and sloping in comparison. 

Belle knows the sight causes revulsion in the Beast.   She can’t even look.   And Belle wants to comfort her, but her own anxiety surfaces.   Because she can’t offer solace without revealing some deeper vulnerability, without exposing her own truths.   The truth in that she likes the thick, rough hand beneath hers.   That she likes that low rasping voice.   That she could love those aching blue eyes.

She doubts the Beast would understand.  Belle scarcely understands herself.   It scares her a little, her own feelings.   Alarming is an understatement.   But those feelings are there, simmering within her breast. 

The Beast allows Belle to rest against her, and Belle wraps both arms around one arm, pressing her cheek flat to her bicep. 

“We’re friends now, aren’t we?” Belle asks, aware the heat churning in her belly exceeds amity.  “We must be.”

“We are,” the Beast says, breathing deep, “I hope.”

Belle looks up.  The Beast looks away.   Next time, Belle will touch her chin and make her look again, but this time, she rests her forehead against her shoulder. 

“Good,” Belle says.  “I’m glad.”

 

 

 

Another day.   Belle asks.   The Beast answers.    The same as always.

They circle the courtyard.   Belle finds a daisy struggling to bloom in the midst of a perpetual winter.   She crouches to save it, brushing snow from its roots, stroking its fine petals.   The Beast snaps a branch off an old tree so the sun can better kiss it. 

“You are too kind to this place,” the Beast says, throwing the large branch like it was a twig. 

Belle stands.  She brushes snow from her knees, though it leaves a wet patch.  

“This place has always been kind to me,” she says simply.

“Not always,” the Beast replies, but her smile is playful, “I did try to lock you up.”

Belle wasn’t laughing then, but she laughs now.   A strand of dark hair falls from her messy up do and she tucks it back.  

“That’s true,” she says, recalling the cold dungeon, the floor icier than this promenade, the chill brisker than this cool afternoon. 

But she also recalls her first impression of the Beast.   Startled, of course, but not scared.   Never truly scared. 

“Are you a _woman_?” she asked, aghast, after hearing the creature speak.  It only earned her a snarl.

“Do I _look_ like a woman?” came the biting rejoinder. 

Belle had stumbled back at the revelation of a monster.  She watched from the floor, her knees bent in front of her, her weight fallen back on her elbows.    When she did not immediately reply, the monster’s stare became one of scrutiny.   She observed Belle, quickly averting her gaze when she found wonder instead of fear.  

But the rest of Belle was not an easier sight to behold.  Thoughtlessly splayed open on the floor, her knees were parted and her skirt was flung back.   She never wore garters or hose, nor anything more than scant, improper underthings for beauty more than comfort.   Belle liked to think herself someone of great deliberation, but she was undoubtedly dreamy.   Her books were mostly romances, her imaginings grand and adventurous.   She never had any desire to share her intimate yearnings with any man, but looking nice for the benefit of herself and some mentally conjured lover was thrilling in a small way. 

Being regarded so thoroughly by a beast was something else entirely, and not unpleasant. 

“Yes,” she answered the Beast’s question.   “You look like a woman to me.” 

The Beast shuffled back, shoulders hunching.

“Cover yourself,” she growled, and diverted the scene back to its former dramatics by wrenching the dungeon door open. 

Belle stands in the light of the afternoon sun, a hazy white-and-grey.   She likes the courtyard.   She wonders what it would look like covered in daisies, white with petals instead of snow.   She feels the warmth of springtime in her chest, in her belly, between her thighs.    She peers at the Beast who is also lost in her musings.

Belle touches her lower back and the Beast starts, jumping like it was a punch.   She shimmies away from the touch, holding out the book of poetry she picked for today.

“Would you like to keep reading?” she asks Belle, her gaze imploring, almost begging.   Her big hands shake, not from the cold.  The Beast is never cold.   Men’s clothes are the only clothes that fit her, but she never wears more than breeches, a shirt, and that cloak.   She walks barefoot through the garden without shivering.   But the book trembles in her grip. 

Belle takes the book.  She smiles.

“Of course,” she says.  “Where did we leave off?”

 

 

 

“Will you at least let me _guess_ your name?”  Belle asks at supper one night. 

The Beast spears a piece of meat on a knife.  Indelicate, but more polite than tearing with her teeth.  She chews, looking thoughtful, then shakes her head. 

“No,” she says.  “It’s for the best.”

Belle growls as if a beast herself.   “You’ll tell me one day,” she swears.

“Maybe.”  The Beast shrugs, but she is not so cavalier.  She shifts in her seat and drops her gaze. 

Belle cuts a smaller piece of meat and eats, watching her across the table.

 

 

 

“I find Milton tedious,” the Beast says, at perfect ease for once.  

Both she and Belle fall into an easier languor when surrounded by books.   Literature from the previous century covers every inch of the floor in front of the fire-place.   The Beast lays on her back, her cloak spread beneath them like a blanket.   Belle sits with her legs folded, a book open in her lap.   Her hair is neatly tied, its length draped over her shoulder.   She throws it back and looks at the Beast.

“Would you prefer another _comedy_?”  she asks, dryly.

The Beast laughs, a low rumble in her chest.   Belle smiles in spite of herself.

“You were not a fan of Wycherley?” the Beast asks. 

“That play was vulgar,” Belle says with faux-haughtiness.   In truth, they both giggled their way through the raunchy story, but their own play-acting is just as amusing.   Belle closes her book and swats at the Beast.   “A lady such as myself could never enjoy such a piece.”

“A lady such as yourself,” the Beast repeats, rolling onto her side.  She props her head under her hand.  “I’ll take you at your word.”

“And what does that mean?” Belle asks, crossing her arms.  She is more than a little aware it accentuates her breasts.   She doesn’t miss the brief appraisal it grants her.   Her cheeks blossom pink with heat.   She can blame it on the nearby fire.  

“Nothing, of course,” the Beast says, meeting her gaze again.  “I’m sure you are every inch a proper lady.” 

“I am, thank you very much,” Belle replies, opening her book just so she can slam it closed again. 

The Beast is smiling like a smitten child.   She rolls onto her back again, folding one arm under her head.  The other rests on her stomach.    Belle shuffles a little closer, without shifting position lest she raise alarm.   She enjoys this easy camaraderie so much.   She has never been so close to someone before.    She has never wanted to be closer to someone, but now she wants.   She wants, very much. 

“What are you smiling at?”  Belle asks. 

“Nothing I should share with a proper lady.”

“I think I preferred you taciturn and hostile,” Belle says, turning now that she is close enough.  She lays down perpendicular to the Beast, resting her head on her belly.   “At least you teased me less.”

She can feel when the Beast breathes, the lift of her body, the fall.  The hand that was on her stomach falls aside, landing beside Belle.  Belle looks down at it. 

“I think you like to be teased,” the Beast says.  

Belle doubts her intention is to rouse any fire, but heat rolls through her anyway.   She licks her lips and crosses her ankles. 

“I think you just like to tease,” Belle replies. 

“Slander!” the Beast says, and Belle giggles. 

Tempted too wildly by the proximity of that hand, Belle takes hold.  She clasps it between both of hers, runs her finger down the centre of her palm.  The Beast tries to pull her hand back, but Belle holds steadfast.  

The Beast breathes.  Rise.  Fall.    

“What are you doing?” the Beast asks, peering down at Belle. 

Belle draws circles on her palm. 

“Teasing,” she says.

She touches their fingertips together, then gently rakes her nails down the skin.   The Beast curls her fingers but when she makes a fist, Belle circles the hole her grip makes.   She wiggles her finger inside and the Beast stops breathing altogether.   Belle gently draws her finger back and forth, holding her own breath, pressing her legs together at the slickness that forms between them.  

The Beast breathes in.   She quickly tears her hand back. 

“I want to talk to Mrs Potts about supper,” the Beast says, hastily, moving out from under Belle.   Belle thunks onto the floor, the carpet and cloak catching her.   The Beast doesn’t even stop to grab the cloak, breaking for the door. 

Belle sighs, watching her go.   She isn’t brave enough to follow yet.

 

 

 

“I would be most obliged to provide you with the Mistress’s name,” Cogsworth says, sitting in a kitchen chair.  

Another petal fell yesterday.  Belle never gets used to the changes it brings.   Yesterday, Cogsworth still looked quite like a man.  He’s a little shorter today, though, and his moustache has gone stiff like the hands of a clock.   Belle swears she can see numbers, like faded tattoos, taking shape on his skin. 

“Don’t be absurd!”  Lumiere explains, his own transformation even more alarming.  His skin has gone from mostly flesh to wax.   If not for his go-lucky candour, he might be frightening to behold.   “She wants to hear it from the Mistress’s lips, herself!”

“The Mistress will never reveal something like that, and you know it!”   Cogsworth says.   He makes a fist and thumps the table.  It takes him a long time to uncurl his fingers again.

“It’s all right,” Belle says, hoping to end their bickering before it really starts.  “I don’t want to impose on anyone’s privacy, anyway.  It’s her choice.”

“A name is hardly an imposition,” Cogsworth says, sniffing. 

“Bah!”  Lumiere waves a hand.  Little sparks fly off his fingertips.  “You don’t have a romantic bone in your body.”

“I hardly have any bones at all!  I’m bits and bobs.  I swear it, I just swear it!” 

They start bickering over the composition of their cursed barely-humans forms, and Belle slips into the corridor. 

They mean well, but Belle was honest with her answer.   For as much as she wants to know the Beast’s name, she won’t try to steal it. 

In the library later that day, on her own, she almost does so by accident.   Perusing the local histories, she finds journals about this very castle, penned not so many years ago.  They are out of order, hastily shoved there by someone who probably didn’t know what they were.  She brings a stack of them to the table, curious about the history of this place.  

Only the journal is not a history, or a pastoral recording.   Nothing social or sentimental. 

It’s medical.

_17 June.  His Majesty is not pleased with results.   The child has grown more unruly instead of less. Isolation ineffective.   Active diversion recommended._

_21 June.  The child continues to be hostile and occasionally violent with us.  His Majesty is adamant no permanent scarring be committed, so she is difficult to contain.  Rope burn does not irritate.  Flogging was similarly ineffective, though the child has begun to deny her deviations.  Recommended return to isolation._

_13 July.  After sometime returned to habitude, the child was caught with her companion again.  The girl was disposed of.  His Majesty has granted permission for more intense treatments._

_15 July.  Flogging ineffective.  Fire ineffective.  Corrective persuasion refused by His Majesty._

_19 July.  Corrective persuasion granted.  Ineffective._

_21 July.  Child broke free and tried to run off the tower._

_22 July.  Exhaustion from previous day’s travails has led to compliancy._

_24 July.  Child refuses to be touched.  Behaves when granted isolation.  Improvement in a certain regard.  Refuses male touch but at least refuses alternative as well._

_26 July—_

Belle stops reading. 

 

 

 

“One of the children told me a witch cursed you for being unkind,” Belle says.   It’s night-time but neither of them could sleep, so they roam the library with a single candle for light. 

The Beast places the sconce on a table, sitting in a chair.   Belle leans against the table, looking down at her. 

“It was something like that,” the Beast says.  She opens a book on the table but doesn’t read; her eyes do not follow the lines. 

Belle is hesitant to touch her shoulder, has been hesitant for days, but when she does, the Beast goes lax. 

Belle extrapolated her own conclusions from the journals she discovered, but she isn’t sure how to broach the subject.   But she feels even more blessed than before when the Beast permits her touch.   The slow-going of that permission makes a little more sense now.  

Belle gently strokes the thick hair on the back of her neck, the Beast slouching in her seat.  Belle almost expects her to purr like a cat.   Her eyelids get heavy.   Belle tucks her own unbound hair and sits in the adjacent chair.   She tugs her robe closed over her nightdress. 

“What _really_ happened then?”  Belle asks.

The Beast scratches the table, then retracts her claws. 

“My father was indebted to an Enchantress,” the Beast says, “Her price was that I marry her son.   My father was dead so I refused.   It wasn’t my debt.  She told me I was a vain youth and would see, in time, my folly.   I believe _this_ —”  The Beast gestures vaguely to herself, “Was a manifestation of my inner state.  Proof no one else could… that no one could ever…”

_Love me._

Belle is glad to be sitting.  Her knees knock and her fingers shake, and she is certain she would have buckled with fury had she been upright.   As it is, she huffs like the Beast has done so many times, then reaches across to touch her forearm.  A familiar touch.   She strokes gently and the Beast softens.

“It was no such manifestation,” Belle says.  “You were never a monster.”

“Forgive my hesitancy to believe that,” the Beast says dryly.  “I have  substantial evidence to the contrary.”

Belle is careful not to direct her anger in the wrong place, so she tempers it.  Her eyes close. 

It isn’t until the Beast touches _her_ , an unsteady thumb brushing the damp streak on her face, that Belle realizes she shed tears.

“What’s wrong?” the Beast asks, with such sincere concern that it breaks Belle’s heart.   Such a contrast to the furious, animalistic mask she donned to fit everyone else’s perception of her.   She gave them exactly what they asked for, just as she gives Belle something different entirely. 

Belle can’t help herself.  With that hand so close, she gently clasps it, then turns her face and kisses the palm.   The Beast freezes.

“Nothing,” Belle says.  “Only I wish you wouldn’t say those things.   If someone else said them about you, I would be furious with them.”

To her surprise, the Beast smiles.

“What?” Belle asks, wondering how she could possibly smile, possibly feel giggly at a time like this.

“I’m imagining you in a brawl, beating off courtiers like you scared off the wolves,” the Beast says, and her smile widens.  Belle can see her fangs but doesn’t recoil—feels, instead, joy at the unabashed display.   “It’s plenty amusing.”

“I could fight them all just fine,” Belle swears, still holding that hand to her face. 

“I’m sure you could,” the Beast replies.  She looks at where her hand sits.   Her mouth closes and she swallows, but tips her head like a curious creature—regarding Belle.  She carefully strokes her fingers through the long, loose hair. 

Belle sighs, feeling somehow purged, having shed tears.   She sits in silence, such a simple but profound pleasure in the Beast stroking her hair.   Belle decides she is the more cat-like creature, content and humming under the gentle touch.   She leans to follow the hand when the Beast retreats.   Belle clasps her wrist. 

“Don’t stop,” she says, imploring.

The Beast breathes in, but shakes her head and pulls back her hand.

“It’s late,” the Beast says.  “You’re tired.”  She pushes out her chair but she doesn’t stand.   Her hands are flat on the table and she stares at the book, her mind faraway. 

Belle watches.  She can feel the cold floor beneath her feet, through the little slippers she donned.  Little bursts of sudden cold move through her, a lamentation for the loss of their proximity.   She almost grabs her breasts, feeling the sensitive tips tighten in the cold—or maybe from something else.  

She lets her robe fall open.  The nightdress is very thin.  She pushes out her chair so it scrapes the floor.

The Beast looks at her and her breath catches.   The blue of her gaze shrinks, darkness swelling, eyes almost black in the light of the flickering candle.  She struggles to keep her gaze aloft.  It inevitably drops.

“I think about that night,” Belle says.

The Beast looks aside, shamed like a child caught in a forbidden act.  Belle barely resists seizing her face and returning her gaze.   She waits for the Beast to come to her. 

“What night?” the Beast asks.

“When you saved me from the wolves.”

The Beast scratches behind her ear.   “You mostly saved yourself,” she says.

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Belle says.  “I would have been killed if not for you.   You were extraordinary.   How you threw them off.  How you… protected me after.”

She remembers that very well.   The wolves circled them, tentative after their bashing, but the Beast left no room to be misconstrued.   When they sniffed at Belle, the Beast dove on top of her.   Belle dug her nails in the earth, her heart thundering, her hair blown loose.   She should have been afraid of the Beast, with the weight of that huge body hovering above her, but Belle felt secure.   When the Beast caged her in and roared overhead, she trembled, but not out of fear.   Quite the opposite. 

No one had ever defended her before.   Belle could never dream such protective possession in order to wish for it. 

“You’re too kind,” the Beast says, expression knit with contemplation, with confusion.   She wages some mental war. 

“Why did you do it?”  Belle asks. 

The Beast looks at her.  “I would do it for anyone,” she says.  “I wouldn’t allow you to get ripped to pieces—”

“Not just that,” Belle says.  “ _Everything_.  Would you stand over Cogsworth the same way?  Or Lumiere?  I’m sure you would protect them, but would it be the same?”

She remembers the heavy breath pouring down her neck, their hearts beating in tandem.   The Beast slid off her, slipping to the side, collapsing in the dirt.   Then it was Belle’s turn to save her. 

That’s what it was all about—saving each other. 

“No,” the Beast answers honestly.   She drops her hands to her lap.   Her fingers curl and unfurl.  “No.  It was different.”

Belle stands on shaky legs.  The Beast looks at her.  Neither of them are quite brave enough for whatever comes next, but Belle has always endeavoured to be courageous.   Her heart slams against her ribcage like it means to break through, but she crosses the bit of space between them.  The Beast moves her hands and Belle accepts that as invitation.   She moves slowly, nonetheless, leaving ample opportunity for refusal.

The Beast is still, her hands at her sides as Belle sits in her lap. 

“You don’t have to tell me now,” Belle whispers, though they are alone in the library, alone in their little pocket of light.   Nothing exists in the shadows beyond.   “But one day, I hope you can tell me your name.”   She rests her hands on the Beast’s broad shoulders.  “I won’t use it if you don’t want me to.  I won’t pretend I don’t see a beast when I look at you.”   A blush crawls over her whole body and she lowers her gaze.   “But it’s not the only thing I see.” 

There’s a moment of silence, then the Beast tucks her fingers under Belle’s chin.  The touch is so tender, it’s hard to believe that same hand is capable of force brutality.   The careful restraint is as emotionally stirring as it is physical.  Belle lifts her face and pours affection through her glance.  

The Beast smiles, scarcely veiling her melancholy.

“I wish I could see what you see,” the Beast says, and drops her hand.  “But I don’t.” 

She tries to stand, to displace Belle with the action.  Any other night, Belle might have slid to her feet, might have closed her robe, might have returned to her chambers in mute acquiescence.

Tonight, she tightens her legs around the Beast’s waist, clenching her thighs, holding fast to her shoulders and the hair there.   The Beast stands and Belle clings to her, like a woman suspended above death might cling to a cliff-face.   Holding on means everything. 

The Beast, for all her reticence, won’t simply drop her.   She holds Belle steady, her hands broad and warm under her thighs.   Belle can feel the rough touch through her nightdress and she shivers, stringing her arms around her neck.   She pulls herself flush to the Beast, the warmth of her seeping through the nightdress, taunting her breasts until the tender buds pucker.  She feels vulnerable and exposed where her legs are open to accommodate the breadth of the Beast’s hips. 

The Beast puts her on the table with a heavy _thud_ , like Belle is the heaviest thing she has ever carried, when Belle knows it is far from true; she could throw her around quite easily, if she was ever so inclined. 

Belle clings to her still, the Beast slamming her hands onto the table. 

“Belle,” she grumbles, almost a growl, that humming threat of action like when she faced the wolves.   Her face is turned into Belle’s throat.   Belle turns so they can see each other. 

“I have met monsters before,” Belle says, touching the Beast, stroking the hair on the nape of her neck.  “Real monsters.  I’m not exactly considered a _proper lady_ in my village.” 

The Beast laughs at that, a breath of a sound.  The warmth of it touches Belle’s throat. 

Belle threads her fingers through the long, unruly hair that falls around the Beast’s face.    Two horns twist within the dark mane, folded flat to her head but protruding just enough that Belle could grab hold.   She isn’t sure how sensitive they are or are not, and she doesn’t want to scare her, so Belle touches only her hair.  Long, rhythmic strokes. 

“People can be cruel,” Belle says.  “Gossiping and pointing fingers.   Women and men are as bad as each other, but different I suppose.   The women are nasty but the _men_ —”   Belle thinks of Gaston’s pomposity, almost violent in his arrogance, in his carelessness for life around him.   His blatant degradation and objectification—and that was towards a woman he _liked_.   “They can be worst of all.” 

The Beast grabs her suddenly, hands heavy on her hips.   She looks down at Belle.  The candlelight flickers and each shadow reveals some new sentiment.   Concern, fear, anger.  Hunger.   A possessive sort of feasting.   Belle shivers though she isn’t cold anymore.

“Did they ever hurt you?” the Beast asks, voice rumbling.   It comes from her chest.   

“No.”  Belle shakes her head.  “But maybe time away from them isn’t so bad for my well-being.”

The Beast holds her tight.  Belle feels the slightest touch of her claws before they retract.   Her blood thunders in anticipation of a cut, which doesn’t come, so it gathers low and thickens.  Hot, wet, in some intimate place deep inside her.   The Beast breathes in and Belle wonders if her senses are acute like a wolf; if she can smell that thick arousal, if she can hear her heart pounding.   Belle is helpless but to share her desire, but beholden; her body says what she cannot.

The Beast touches her, rubs the skin of her outer thighs.  The nightdress rucks up, bit by bit.

“No one will ever hurt you,” the Beast says, quiet but with intensity.   Like the roar in the woods, standing above Belle, warding off malefactors.   Belle believes her.   “No one,” the Beast says, on a shuddering breath.   Her whole body rears as if bracing for an attack, then she abruptly wrenches away.  “Including me.” 

“ _Beast_ —” Belle pleads.  She wishes she knew another name, because that one worsens the pall now shrouding the Beast’s countenance. 

The Beast takes a moment, her chest heaving, her fists tight and eyes wide as she looks over Belle, splayed out on the table like a virgin offering to some beastly, pagan god.  She turns for the cloak she is not wearing.  When she can’t curl into it, she suffices to grab her arm and dig her claws into her own skin. 

Belle finally sits straight, closing her legs.

“Stop that!”  She admonishes.  “You’re hurting yourself!”

The Beast looks down her arm, genuinely surprised at the bit of blood trickling through the torn shirt.  It was involuntary, which is only a mild consolation.  The instinct is still disturbing. 

“Let me help you,” Belle says, sliding off the table.

The Beast steps back.  “No,” she insists.  “I’ll be fine.  Let me return you to your room.”

“Beast—”

“ _Belle_.”  This is no longer reservation.  It’s refusal. 

Belle nods.   “All right,” she says, and takes the candle.   She leads the way.  

The Beast walks her across the dark corridor, the floor creaking beneath their feet, and leaves her in the door of her bedchamber. 

“Take the candle,” Belle says, holding the sconce outward.  

The Beast forms a protest, but looks at Belle again—dishevelled, her bed-chamber door open, the bed plush and inviting behind her, covers thrown back in abandonment.  

Her chest heaves again.  The Beast takes the candle in mute compliance, not wishing to speak more this night.  

Belle, again, watches her leave.

 

 

 

The Beast does not join her for breakfast or lunch.   She arrives at supper late, slurping her soup and not touching the meat.   Belle has a book open the table, but she isn’t reading it.   She steals furtive glances at her companion.   One returned glance flushes her with heat.   Her heart beats high as her throat.  The Beast looks away.

“Is your name Marie?” Belle asks.   The Beast snorts.  “Augustine.”

“What a horribly ugly name.  No.”  The Beast drops her chin to her hand and looks out the wide window.   Snow falls in the blue dark.   “You will never guess it.”  

It’s definitive.

They finish eating in silence.

 

 

 

Just when Belle thinks nothing will ever be the same (also wondering when she considered her life in this palace as wont and not exception), the Beast intervenes. 

Belle is alone in the library, rifling through books, searching for the sequel to a drama.   She hears the door open and close.   She recognizes the weight of those footsteps.   

They have been circling each other like children in an unsteady dance for days, so Belle does not expect further interaction.   She is surprised the Beast surfaced at all.  She tucked herself away in the West Wing, left to her solitary devices.   Belle has no interest in trespassing again.   If she returns, it will be with an explicit invitation.

She doubts she will ever receive such a thing.

Belle goes on the tips of her toes, stretching, reaching for a book just one shelf too high.   Not worth fetching the ladder, but still out of reach.  She bounces to no avail. 

At the brink of surrender, two big hands clasp her waist.  

Belle never believed romantic descriptions of desire—swooning episodes and bursts of white heat.   No man ever conjured a reaction beyond vague aesthetic appreciation.    But those hands on her hips fill her with warmth, a swelling passion.   The Beast lifts her off her feet with ease.   She places Belle on her shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Belle says softly, one hand on the shelf, the other on the Beast.   Her fingers slip through her hair, brushing a horn in her distraction.   She takes the book, then pauses, her other fingers flat on the horn. 

The Beast is steady.   She holds Belle’s legs, supports her weight.   Belle curls her fingers around the smooth dark ivory, marvels at its smoothness.   The Beast looks up at her and Belle ceases her ministrations. 

Belle isn’t sure what should happen next.  Perhaps they will separate.   Perhaps she will never come down; perhaps she’ll remain here, perched like a bird for the rest of her life.   It sounds better than separating. 

The Beast plucks Belle off her shoulder as easy as any bird.  She holds her waist, then under her arms, then lowers her to her feet.   She does not immediately release her.    One hand settles on her lower back.   Belle flattens the book to her chest and gazes upward.

“I missed you,” the Beast says, and looks embarrassed right after.   She averts her gaze.  “I mean—you haven’t been far, but I—”

Belle touches her fingers to the Beast’s lips.   They may conceal fangs, a certain lurking danger, but her mouth is almost human.   Her eyes most certainly are.   A blue that washes over Belle and summons affection.   She smiles.

“I missed you too,” she says. 

The Beast takes her hand and lowers it.  She keeps her other hand firmly on Belle’s lower back.   Belle holds the book but leans into her.  

“Good,” the Beast says.   “I want to apologize for the other night—”

“If anyone should apologize, it’s me,” Belle says.   Before the Beast can protest, she adds, “And I’m not apologizing.” 

The Beast opens her mouth, gaping like a fish, and closes it again.   Belle smiles brighter.

“I’ll get your name one day,” she says.  “Though I still think it’s Marie.”

The Beast smiles.  Her fangs don’t seem dangerous at all. 

“You might,” the Beast says.  “And it’s not.  I’m much too refined for _Marie_.”  

Belle giggles.  She presses her face to the Beast’s chest and breathes her in, content. 

 

 

 

Belle has a nightmare.  The wolves chase her through the forest, the earth opening into the city.  When she turns, the wolves become Gaston and his reprobates.   They descend on her with fire.  Gaston boasts of beheading a beast to save his _little wife_.    

Shuddering, Belle goes to the library where the Beast is already reading.   At her disturbed state, the Beast is concerned.   Sometime later, Belle finds herself in the West Wing.   The Beast tucks her into her own bed then lays down on a pile of cushions.

“Don’t sleep on the floor,” Belle says, already weary.  She strokes the space beside her.  “This bed could fit five men.”

The Beast snorts.  “Would you like me to find some?”

“Don’t be crass,” Belle says.  “I’d like you to join me.” 

The Beast obeys, laying atop the covers.   She stiffens when Belle slides closer, resting her head on her shoulder.   

“You couldn’t hurt me,” Belle says.

“I believe I could,” the Beast replies. 

“Maybe,” Belle says, “But not how you think.” 

Belle wakes with the Beast curled around her, one arm thrown protectively over her waist.   When Belle shifts, the arm tightens.   The Beast pulls her close, nestles her right in her lap, a few measly blankets between them.   The heat of her body enthrals Belle.   

A heavy hand on her belly holds her tight, and she rubs her bottom against the body behind her, trying to get comfortable.

At some moment, the Beast wakes, and she grabs Belle’s hips to still her. 

“Good morning,” Belle says, contently. 

“Good morning,” the Beast says, rougher.

“Is your name Elizabeth?”  Belle asks. 

The Beast laughs.   “Absolutely not.  How unpatriotic.” 

 

 

 

“Margaret!” Belle guesses.  “Francoise!  Catherine!”

“No, no, no.”

The West Wing is a little neater now that Belle has swept through it in a fury of tidiness.   The bed is immaculate.   

A candle burns on a low wicker.   Where it does not reach, the room is a deep blue.   It isn’t snowing tonight, but white covers the veranda.   A red light burns through the burgundy curtains, the hum of magic beating like a heart from that corner of the room.  Belle quietly circles the bed, her eyes on the red in the blue, the gold warming her skin.   The canopy falls on one side and the gold dims.   The red burns hotter.   Belle feels its thrum.   Something inside her pulsates. 

“Belle,” the Beast says, tender, curious.   “Is everything all right?” 

Belle looks at the Beast.  She is comfortable in a man’s shirt and too-short breeches, as comfortable as she ever is.   Belle’s robe is tied closed above her nightdress.   Her hair is loose; she hasn’t yet plaited it for sleep.   She tucks a wild curl behind her ear. 

“Yes,” she says.  “Just thinking.” 

Such a reply was often met with derision.  Respectable girls didn’t deliberate on their circumstances; they were blindly grateful for their situation.   But the Beast smiles.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, sincere to the core. 

Belle decides to indulge her, but their discourse is inevitably volatile.   They argue, no different than before.   The candle burns while they bicker.   The moon wanes white.   The rose imbues the room with red. 

“Why are you afraid of me?”  Belle asks.

The Beast, sitting high on the bed with her arms crossed, glares. 

“Me?” she asks.  “Afraid of _you_?”

“Yes,” Belle says, planting her feet, her hands on her hips.  “Are you so afraid of my affection?”

“You can’t possibly—” the Beast begins, then shakes her head.   She slides down the bed and buries her face in her hands.  

“What?”  Belle asks.  “Want you?”  She tries not to sound hysterical.   She shakes with repressed emotion, desire, thought.   She’ll fall to her knees any moment now, so she crawls onto the bed and kneels there.   “Because I do desire you.  As a beast or a woman.”

“Two things you should not desire,” the Beast says, driving her fists into the bedclothes.

“And yet I do,” Belle says, sitting back on her heels.  She crosses her arms.  “Does that make _me_ a beast?”

The Beast blinks, unsure how to respond.   Her mouth flaps uselessly for a minute then growls.

“It’s not the same thing,” the Beast says.

“Why not?”  Belle demands.

“It just isn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because… I said so.” 

Belle huffs.  “Unbelievable!” 

They sit across one another, Belle at the foot, the Beast at the head.   They both cross their arms.  The blue dark is speckled with gold from the dying candlelight, a red heat burning between them.   The room, once saturated with magic, is burned clean.   Silver moonlight pours across the bed, the heat between them white.   The red pulsates elsewhere.  

 “Very well,” Belle says.  “Then you and I will be _friends_.” 

The Beast says nothing.   She sits back in a slouch, her knees bent in front of her.   Her arms are stiff across her large chest.  

Belle unties her robe. 

“What are you doing?” the Beast asks, a rumble that starts low in her chest, maybe lower.   It crawls up her throat and tumbles past her lips.   Thoroughly touched.  

“I’m dressing for bed,” Belle says, though she has worn her robe to sleep the past few nights.   She discards it now, allowing it to drift down her arms.   It flutters in a silken heap around her, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.   Her nightdress is sleeveless, plain, without any adornments or fancy stitching.  It is entirely practical.   A sheath of white.   The sole slip of fabric that conceals her trembling body.

The Beast stares.   The dress is not designed for modesty, for all its simplicity.   The shape of her breasts must be clear; she can feel where their most sensitive peaks are stiff against the material.   The white fabric cradles her hips, soft like a lover’s touch, dipping and swelling wherever she curves.   It wraps around her thighs and flows loose to her knees. 

She breathes in.   The Beast breathes out.  

“I’m not unwilling,” Belle says.  “I’m not unwanting.”

“You can’t know what you want,” the Beast says, digging her fingers into her upper arms.  She has the sense to retract her claws this time.  

“Don’t do me that disservice,” Belle says.  “That holy affectation is beneath you.  It makes you no better than the men from my village.” 

The Beast meets her eye.  Her gaze darkens.    

“I am not like them,” she says. 

“No,” Belle says.  “You’re not.  Which is why none of them ever saw me like this.”

This conjures the faintest quirk of her lips, exposing a fang.  

“I could almost pity them,” the Beast says.   Her expression softens.   She closes her eyes and her brow pinches.   “I can’t…”  She breathes hard.   “You mustn’t let me hurt you, Belle.”

“You won’t,” Belle says.  “Unless you don’t come here.” 

The Beast sighs.  With that breath, she expels her reluctance.  It leaves her body with a shudder, blackens her eyes.   She breathes through her nose.   Her knees part. 

Her glance reaches Belle like a physical touch, sudden and hard and forcing itself between her legs.   Her muscles clench.  She fists the skirt of her nightdress.   Her confidence doesn’t wane, but withdraws into curiosity.   The Beast moves swiftly, into a position like something like hunts—a lioness, feline, feminine, and irrevocably dangerous— observing her prey, on her fists and her knees.  Belle shifts her weight from side-to-side. 

“It’s not easy for me,” the Beast says, “They burned so much out of me a long time ago.”

Belle swallows.  “I know.” 

“No, you don’t,” the Beast says.   She slinks closer.   Belle wets her lips.   Desire turns liquid between her thighs, and that place inside her laments its emptiness.   The Beast looks her over.  “You think you do,” the Beast says.  “I thought I did.  I was so certain.”  She takes the discarded robe, its length sweeping past Belle as it slithers to the floor.   “Do you know why that witch cursed me?  Because I _was_ unkind.   To her, to her son, to everyone.  I was moved by no beauty.  Affected by no lesson.” 

Her breath touches the side of Belle’s throat, creating a hazy cloud.   Then she grabs Belle by the waist and lifts, pulls her legs out from under her and drops her flat on her back. 

“I was resigned to my fate,” the Beast says.  “Selfish, maybe, but true.  Then _you_ ,” she growls, snarls, and stretches her body over Belle, “dismantle the entire construction of my life with your kindness, your anger.   Your voice.”  She plants her hands on the bed, on either side of Belle’s head, and lifts herself up.   She closes her eyes and calculates, restrains.   “Your body,” she finally says, and when she looks down, she sees all of Belle.   Her eyes are a dark evening blue, familiar, desirous, amorous. 

“So you _are_ afraid of me,” Belle says, inching her hand towards her own wetness, feeling its untouched desperation.

The Beast seizes her hand and pins it above her head.

“Yes, Belle,” she says, and means it, her voice rich with sentiment.  “Terrified.”

She moves away.   Belle almost cries out in frustration, biting her lip in a patient endeavour.   The Beast releases her hand but Belle remains there.  She lifts the other, curling her fingers over the edge of the bed. 

The Beast kneels above her, looking down in wonder and bemusement alike.   Like an artist with a canvas who doesn’t know where to start.   A writer with a blank page and a long story to tell.   With so many words, it was difficult to begin. 

She finally reaches for her, touching where Belle bites her lip.  It slides free, raw and wet, and she touches there.   Belle kisses the rough pad of her thumb.   Decided with this action, the Beast unsheathes a single claw and strikes down the middle of her dress, as low as her navel, and slices through the straps holding it together. 

Belle’s whole body heaves, hips lifting off the bed.   The Beast pushes her back down, a hand in the centre of her chest.   Belle bites her lip again, otherwise she might babble and ruin everything, and watches the Beast slowly part the cut material.   Measured, like unwrapping a delicate present.   For all the brusque strength quivering in her muscles, the Beast is tender, and folds the material past her navel before laying one hand on her. 

A searching touch, studying the skin like the finest porcelain.  It feels nothing like her own hand.   Belle sinks into the bed with a languid stretch, a rough thumb rolling her nipple before sliding down.   

“Yes,” Belle breathes, closing her eyes and opening her legs.   The Beast is still above her so they only part so far.

As the Beast shifts back, Belle can’t help but touch where her hand just was, feeling the weight of her own breast, then slipping down beneath the remaining bit of dress.   Her self-satisfaction has always been imperfect and hurried, and never has she slid her hand into such easy slickness without further preparation. 

She opens her eyes, sliding the hardened wet nub of her desire between two fingers.   The most sensitive place of pleasure, concealed within her.   Her body jerks at the touch. 

The Beast looms above her, breathing hard, watching.   Belle returns her hand above her head, pressing her thighs together, staring back at the dark blue eyes.   The gold has melted into the room.   Moonlight puddles on the bed.  The Beast moves in and out of shadow, shoving pillows to the floor as she fits her big body in the space she desires.  

Belle clutches the bedclothes but the Beast steals her hand.   Belle watches her, her fingers sticky with the obvious proof of desire.   When the Beast licks her hand, tongue too broad for a sophisticated touch, Belle feels lust trickle down her thighs and onto the ivory nightdress.   Soft material, simple and pure, ruined. 

“ _Belle_ ,” the Beast says, licking her fingers clean, “Your name could not be more perfect.”

“I’m sure yours is lovely too,” she says, and the Beast laughs in spite of the heady circumstances.

“It’s plain,” is all she says. 

“Marie?”  Belle teases.

“No.”  The Beast releases her hand.  Belle clutches the edge of the bed with both hands again.  “Plainer still.”

 _Nothing about you is plain,_ Belle almost says, but the Beast distracts her.   She noses at her thighs, pushes the dress upward.    Belle sucks in a breath when she rips it with her teeth.   White fangs flash in the blue dark, a smile that could be malevolent but purely placates her.   The Beast flattens the dress beneath her.   Belle squirms, but she has little time to consider her nakedness as the Beast licks up her closed thighs.  

The request is gentle, pleading, coaxing her open.   Belle obeys with slow acquiescence, parting her legs. Flushed with heat, her cheeks burn red, pink across her belly.   Her breasts swell with breath and her nipples peak.  

Then the Beast shoves her thighs apart, grown suddenly impatient.  Belle throws back her head at the first long swipe of her tongue.   It touches every vulnerable part of her, from her slippery opening to swollen bud.   

Her hips lift with the second stroke.   The Beast cradles her body, holding her up.   Belle relaxes in her strong grip, letting her head drop back as the Beast holds her and licks at her, like a particularly sweet dessert, juice dripping down her fingers.  Belle grasps the bedclothes, though she floats helplessly above them.   She is exactly where the Beast wants her, her blood thickening and cunt pulsing.   It is a slow but thorough devouring, suspended in her hands, legs open over her broad shoulders. 

“Yes,” Belle whispers, “ _Yes_ —” 

She can’t curl away or close her legs, but she tears at the bedclothes and shrieks behind her teeth.   The Beast sucks at that swollen point of pleasure, carrying Belle through a burst of sensation.   She licks at her sweetly afterward, soothing the fire she caused, and carefully lays Belle flat again.  

Belle sinks into the bed, humming, her body singing the praise of aftershocks.

“You—” she begins, somewhat dreamy, like surfacing from a good book—her mind suspended in some faraway world. 

She snaps back into her body as the Beast flips her over, helping her onto her hands and knees.   Belle evens her breathing, dropping her head forward, hair spilling everywhere.  A rough finger traces the wet, pulsing circle of her most intimate place.   Another hand dives into her hair, lifting her head up.   With a gentle pull, she slides back, the finger easing inside her—the same way she teased the Beast some time ago in the library lounge, plunging her finger into her fist. 

This is different.  This is messy and perfect and Belle arches into the touch.   It’s an easy glide— quickly realized, in apparent proof, because the second touch doubles.   Belle tries to squirm but a tug at her hair keeps her steady.   She vaguely wonders what the villagers would say about her now, surrendering virtue in such a manner.   She wonders if they would even be surprised. 

The thought makes her laugh.

“Something amusing you?” the Beast asks, her voice rasping and gruff.   Belle feels her hips bump against her rear, her fingers sliding through the surface wetness before moving inside her again.  

“Just, ah, thinking—”

“About?” 

“Village- _ah_!”

“The _village_ ,” the Beast utters the word like it’s an unholy expletive.   She tugs at her hair and Belle lifts up, onto her knees.   The Beast pulls her flush against her chest and reaches around, returning her fingers inside her.   Belle spreads her knees and bites her lip.   “I hope it is not about anyone there,” the Beast says, curving inside her, reaching up, up, up, and stroking down.   She thrusts back up and Belle trembles.  “If it is, I assure you—”  She pushes Belle back down, pistoning her fingers with brutal precision until Belle’s knees give out, “Whoever it is will never be able to touch you without you thinking about me.” 

That much is inarguably true.  There is no coming back from this.  Belle surrenders to another spasm of pleasure, lying flat while the Beast slows her touch inside her.   When it subsides, little bursts of heat rolling through her body, Belle sighs.   The Beast rolls her onto her back, giving her a moment to catch her breath. 

Belle closes her eyes, once more enjoying the simple sensation of the Beast smoothing her hair.   She lays there, naked and wet, the place between her thighs so thoroughly touched; it feels like there’s still something there, thick and hot and torturing her pleasantly. 

“Belle,” the Beast says, stroking her face, “Are you all right?”

“More than,” Belle says, opening her eyes.  The Beast practically whimpers at the sight of her.  “What is it?”

“You’re more beautiful than I can say,” the Beast says.  “Don’t make me try.”

Belle laughs.  “I’m not vain.  But I’ll believe you.” 

The Beast smiles, leaning down.   She buries her face in the crook of her neck, her weight sliding on top of Belle gradually.   Belle parts her legs again, granting her that space, and the Beast licks at her neck. 

“You don’t have to touch me,” the Beast says softly.

Belle threads her fingers through her thick hair, touching the inhuman horns twisted in the dark tresses.   She lifts her head.   Her body is not animal, but it is not human, and her eyes are entirely her own.  Whoever she was before, whoever she is now, every moment of her life collides in that deep blue. 

Belle strokes the smooth dark horn, not sure how much sensation resides there, and kisses the crown of her head. 

“I want to,” she says.  “Will you let me?” 

The Beast takes a moment to just breathe.  In.  Out.   She lifts her head. 

“You don’t have to,” she says again. 

“I want to,” Belle repeats.   They regard one another for a moment, then Belle leans up.   The Beast dips her head. 

“No kissing,” she says, and won’t look up again.  “Not like… lovers.”

Belle strokes her hair and nods.   She kisses the top of her head chastely again. 

“May I touch you, though?” she asks. 

Belle spreads her legs so the Beast can lift her hips.  The Beast pushes herself up on one hand, palming a soft breast with the other.   She thumbs a nipple and Belle hums in pleasure, little shocks snapping through her body at the touch.   She puts her hand over those fingers and looks up at the Beast. 

“Show me,” she says.  

The Beast swallows and averts her gaze, leading Belle’s hand to the waist of her breeches.   She fumbles with the ties, one-handed.   Belle reaches there and undoes them for her. 

“Look at me, please,” Belle says, and the Beast does.   She looks desirous and nervous, a stark contradiction to her demeanour a moment ago, but Belle supposes this is different.  Belle lays there and allows the Beast to lead her hand, under the shirt, inside the breeches, down, down, down. 

“Oh,” they say at about the same time, differently.   For Belle, it is a sound of mild surprise and delight; the Beast does not feel so different to herself, not here.   Bigger like the rest of her, but familiar, wet and hot and open. 

The Beast, quite simply, makes a sound of pleasure.   She guides Belle’s hand for a time, then leaves her to it.   She shoves her own hands into the bed.  One on either side of Belle’s head.   Belle stares up at her, watching and listening to each flicker of a reaction.   The Beast rocks her hips, a clumsy rhythm that learns it pace.

It almost has Belle rearing, wishing for their bodies to touch so intimately.   This will suffice, though.   She rubs and touches and strokes.   The Beast pushes at the breeches so they slide lower, giving Belle more room.  Belle easily slips two fingers inside her.   Slender and small, it’s hardly anything, so she adds another, and another. 

“ _Belle_.”  The Beast touches her head, pushes her fingers through her hair as Belle finds exactly where she needs to be touched.   They roll their bodies in tandem, Belle watching her fingers disappear below.   Before she can try to slip the last digit in, the Beast shudders and a barely-stifled roar sputters past her lips.   She bites at the bedclothes then sinks on top of Belle. 

Belle slips out of her, lifting her hand to her mouth.  The Beast watches her lick her fingers with a dainty swipe of her tongue.   The Beast grabs her hand and stops her.

“You’re going to kill me,” the Beast says, pinning her hands above her head again. 

Belle smiles.  “There are worse ways to die.”

The Beast laughs, sliding down her body.  “I suppose you’re right.”

She starts to sit upright and Belle lifts an eyebrow.

“Are you done with me already?” she asks.   “Here I thought a beast could last longer.”

The Beast shakes her head, smiling.

 “I think I preferred you indignant and antagonistic,” the Beast says.  “At least I was teased less.” 

Belle grins.  “I think you like being teased,” she says. 

Then she shrieks as the Beast pulls her into her lap and falls backward. 

 

 

Sometime later in the night, they finally rest.   Belle stretches across the bed and the Beast lays her head on her belly.   She curls against her, Belle running her fingers through her hair.   The breeches are somewhere on the floor and the shirt is in a state of ruin. 

“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?” the Beast asks. 

Belle slows her fingers.  

“We have dinner every night,” she says.

“No,” the Beast says.  “I mean—a proper dinner.  Where we dress and we—”  She rests again.  “It’s probably stupid.”

“It sounds lovely,” Belle says, tugging on a horn.   The Beast looks up at her.  “I would love to.”

The Beast smiles, at least until Belle says, “Maybe we can dance!  Maestro would love to play music for us.”

The Beast frowns.  “I don’t dance,” she says.  “Do I look like I dance?”

“You will tomorrow,” Belle says, and the Beast smiles in spite of herself.  

She rests her head again and they lay there like that.   Just as Belle feels lethargy crawl over her, tendrils of day already unspooling on the veranda, the Beasts murmurs something into her skin.   Belle touches her gently behind the ear.

“What was that?” she asks.

The Beast takes a moment.

Daylight breaks. 

“Anne,” she says.  

She looks up at Belle and the blue of her eyes catch the light of day.  For a flickering moment, as if by magic, Belle swears she can see a young woman stretched in front of her—blue eyes, dark hair, solemn smile.   Long and lean and handsome.   The beckoning sunlight shifts and she sees her Beast, but the image lingers.  

The promise of today makes her blood thunder.   Magic is stirring.   Something will happen.

“Anne,” Belle says, smiling.  She kisses the crown of her head.  “It’s a beautiful name.” 


End file.
